Boxed Bitch

I’ve been counting down the days since the last shoot. The memory still burned. Neck and wrists locked in a fiddle, ankles chained up behind my neck, the angle sharp and wrong. I lie on my stomach, elbows and hip bones grinding into raw wood. Every shift only swaps one ache for another. Cyd starts the interview right there, voice low, feeding the tension, laying out what’s coming. A dingy bathroom scene. An enema. The idea alone leaves me slick. Dark, cramped, no room to straighten. My head pressed to one wall, feet to the other, leather straps pinning me in a tight ball. Two dildos fixed behind me, one buried in my soaked pussy, the other stretching my ass. The box lurches forward, wheels rattling over uneven ground, something loose clattering under my face. I whimper through the ball gag. Sudden light floods in. The doors swing open. He strokes my hair almost gently, then rigs a pulley to the ceiling, hooks it to a strap, and lifts me clean off the floor. I dangle, helpless, meat on a hook. He lowers me onto a cart, releases the line, and rolls me out. Cold tile under my knees. Pitch black except for one brutal light. Ball gag strapped tight. He puffs on a cigar, the smoke thick in my face. Something blunt and merciless slides into my ass, heat blooming then fading, leaving me shaking. He leaves me there, bound, dripping, waiting.